The Next Shot
by R.Owens
Summary: [MIRACLE] They say that only a camera can capture a moment that will never happen again. Then take another look at a woman's chance at seeing the 1980's Olympic Hockey team in new angles. Perhaps a certain player's eye might level her view on life. Enjoy!
1. Decisive Moment

Disclaimer: I hereby state that I own nothing but a few plot twists and two OC/M-S characters. Also, I acknowledge that I don't own any of history that has been made, nor am I attempting to transpose any information that might hereby be concluded as 'secret lives of such and such hockey players.' Nope. Just a very enthusiastic fan of the movie "Miracle." That's it. I don't own a thing. Though, I do own the weird spellings, grammar and corny jokes scattered throughout this fic.

A/N: Hey all! This is my first crack at a fic, and I figured: Hey, why not?!

I love reviews! Be they small, fluttered, or evil! You like typing, I love typing… and I will type more if you love typing, too! See? We have some cool things in common! .lol.

Chapter one

It takes a lot to be able to stand up for something you believe in. Something you want so badly, you'd pull heart and limb to achieve it. Not to mention learn the ins and outs of a real world application that I thought I would never get. Alongside a hockey team, I never would have dreamed I would be able to have all theses memories. All these memories. Some might be thinking along the same lines, maybe more towards the Olympic win. But I never would have thought I would make it up until now. The funny thing is that my life's been similar to theirs. Pushing, working and constantly questioning what I want. Really want. Well, its time I get some of that common sense knocked back into this mind of mine.

This decision could make or break this team. Though I'm not a key player, or even a hockey player for that matter, just a girl who is confused. But I've got to rethink what exactly happened. Maybe thinking back might make sense. Maybe it won't. We will just have to see. It is almost time. He might be here. He said he would. What am I going to say?!


	2. Blinding White Lights

Disclaimer: I own nothing. I do not own any rights. Disney: Don't sue me.

A/N: Happy Halloween, everybody!

I hoisted up my bag, full of my camera stuff. They said only a few people might show up for interviews for this gig. Puh-lease! It's the dream of a lifetime! Resume padding if you will: "Official Photographer for the 1980 USA Olympic Team". I knew pretty well that even The Hockey News would send some of its roving bulb-flashers and journalists to nab a piece of this pie.

Taking a deep breath I walked as calmly as I could to the arena entrance. I stumbled three times.

Signs were posted everywhere because of the try-outs this week. A red headed girl about my age pasted me by, hockey sticks in one hand and a clipboard that screamed "Equipment Manager" in the other. She paused and spun on her heel before another pair of double doors that must have been another way for the locker rooms.

"Can I help you?" She inquired? A smile was sweet on her pretty face though I could tell she was a bit irritated.

"Yeah. Could you point me to Herb Brooks office?"

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Well, I am here for the Team Photographer"

She scoffed. "Really? Only one bag? If you say so. Through these doors, down the hallway, door on the left. Up the stairs. He's should be around."

"Thanks. I'm Anne Miller. Thanks by the way. Do you need help with opening the doors? Quite a load, eh?"

Her face softened a bit. 'No. Thanks though. Hope to see you around though."

I filed through the doors she was about to go through and down a hall, guys eyes glancing off of me. One caught my attention. Definitely a looker, but I had to stay realistic. Probably fell under the one of the 'four points' categories.

A) He's taken. B) He's a jerk C) He just wants to be 'friends' or D) He's career orientated. I've met a lot of them before. I'm just thanking my lucky stars that I'm only in the hockey world for the footage. Not the person's backstory. Realistic, factual, sensible… good ol' practical little me.

He was staring adamantly at a bulletin board, probably reading roster selections. A suave looking guy in a pastel green-blue shirt was heading straight for me before he snapped his attention to the taller, darker haired guy before smirking a call: " Jimmy Craig."

I slowed my pace down as I neared the blue door that led to a side entrance to the rink level. They were nearing each other before I 'paused to shuffle some film around in my bag.

The player looking at the board, and turned his attention from the papers and replied nonchalantly, "Hey Jack"

Boston. They must be from Boston, I thought. Wasn't that a name of a new group? Nah. Couldn't be.

Jack replied " What's up, you sieve?"

"How's it going?"

"Good"

"Is there a reason Joey Mullen's not here."

"Yeah, about thirty thousand of 'em… all sitting in his New York Bank account."

I finally was able to pass through the clamor at the door with film in hand, ready to shoot.Too bad the conversation faded away right when it might have been something worth overhearing. I looked ahead and the same hallway looked like the last. Mr. Brooks should be around here somewhere, I murmered He has to be!

One confused walk around the upper offices of the building later, I found myself near Brooks' office. My hands were clammy. I'm always clammy around these people. I'm sure I've been told that the man could be, well…blantant. Using some reverse-psychology I willed myself that I was a busty blonde, gorgeous and blinding to any man's eye. Chuckling, I looked at the dim reflection in the window glass. Nope. Its all me. Every single mousy blonde and hazel eyed inch. Good. Wouldn't want Mr. Brooks to have to tear down his doorframe to get my 'busty self' squeezed into. Hah!

Knocking quickly on the door, I started a bit as Mr. Brooks opened it up quite fast and wheezed into one ruthless sentence,

"Hi. What do you want? We've already got a physician's assistant picked out. Sorry."

My eyebrows rose, as I answered, "No I am here for the Photographer's position. Anne Miller. And that was last Thursday, I'm sure."

"Oh. Yeah. Come in." He mumbled as he shuffled in and indicated for me to take a seat. "So, Miller. I've got two minutes and some Hockey News buff with an eye and papers waiting to tear down my door. What do you think about this?"

"Well, to be certain, I'm pretty sure he's not up to angles and arena experience with the grit I've handled, eh?"

"Not from around here, 'Eh?'"

"Nah. Canada…" He laughed at this. "Nope. Michigan. Brought up and raised, but between you and me…."

'I could tell by the way you said 'angles'. I've a neice from the Yooper end of that area. And what do you mean by 'grit'?"

" Ever have to do camera work for a goalie who fluttered half a second faster than a goalie named Tretiak?" I smiled as politely as I could without giggling.

"Ah, so you've been up the CCCP route?" His eyes glinted just a shade.

"No, Mr. Brooks. Merely amazed at the ability. He's good."

"So who's better?" He scanned me for a second. I had to pause on this one beforing replying back, "Glenn Hall's youngest nephew. They stuck some goalie pads and gave him some sugar before a game. He was so jittered, though I snared four rolls in five mintues of ice play. Too bad the kid's only four feet tall. A shame, really."

Brooks eyed me. I looked down at my hands. Wow. I can't believe I just said that. My hands were tweaking a bit. Quickly, my gaze shot up as he asked one final question,

"When can you move out to Minnesota?" He wasn't smiling. I gulped.

" Give me a few things, I need to clear things with my university's art dept. head."

"Of course. Though I might warn you… these are some guys we are dealing with."

"Of course, and I'm here for video, photo or otherwise…only… just to remind you, Mr. Brooks."

"Call me Herb and I'll sign you on if you can give my wife a recipe for a pastie or two."

After picking up some paperwork from Herb, I raced down the hall as soon as I was naught two feet out into the hall. Me! Videotaping and capturing the team! Being paid to watch hockey. Scratch that, watching hockey as if my sanity and life depended on it. Not to mention the art part… I was so lost in thought as I that I nearly collided with a tall man with curly light brown hair.

"Woah! Hey there!" He said, hands up to block my swinging black camera bag.

"Oh my gosh. I am sorry! Didn't mean to…are you Craig Patrick?" His face was familiar.

"Yeah. Are you looking for Herb Brooks?"

"No. Actually…you. I need some information on accomodations while traveling with the team…" He gave me a lopsided puzzled look. "And no, I'm not a physcian's assistant. I'm the Media Specialist."

"Right." He chuckled. "Okay. If you can follow me, we'll be rooming you nearby the soon-to-be-finalized roster for the team. We have a bit more of tryouts this afternoon. If you want to catch up on who's out there, they're be out there in a couple minutes."

"Sure thing, Craig." Ambling gleefully up the staircase that led to the icy fresh air of the arena, I was still amazed how wonderful this day had been. My camera at my side, I was able to load up a roll just before I heard Herb's slightly irritated voice call out:

"Miller. Can you follow me?" I was surprised how fast he was rescinding his decision. That's just my luck.

"Sure. What for?"

" I need you to look at something for me." He led down to the seats near the closest goalie crease. A taller man in blue goalie gear with a plain white Cheever style mask decorated with what looked to be small green clover was slamming down attack after attack on his net. Fluid, creative… though something was off.

"Yes?" I was uncertain when I said this. Herb picked up on it.

" What do you think?"

"Don't know him, Stick side is balanced pretty good, left leg needs more lighting, and …" The goalie in question spared too many seconds deciding on which way to block and a puck blasted in. A soft "Damnit!" was heard amidst the clamoring voices of the other players. "… This is the third time he flinched on that type of play. Guy's good, though something is up." I peered a bit longer. The goalie pulled up his mask, and squirted down some water and went back into another blocking drill. Herb looked back at me before he nodding to man sitting nearby. I hadn't even noticed him. Though the rink was a bit empty of spectators, there had been some family members or well-wishers in the light crowd.

"This is Mr. Haskell, my goalie coach. Haskell, this is Anne Miller, our team's photographer and all around camera-woman." Haskell had to be in his mid twenties. The brown haired guy definitely didn't fit the description of trainer for an Olympic Hockey team. An earring in each ear and a slight rock vibe drifted off of him. In my book, handsome, interesting… but probably was just a bit too mixed up on the day/night job clarification.

He smiled a lot before telling me, "You're right. Though I'm taking into account he's been through a rough patch, personally." He looked back out to the player. "Yep. Not bad."

Herb then explained how I could help Haskell improve his players by shooting some footage of the players during games for review and for strategy plan reviews. I agreed that it could work. Haskell soon left to check up on another couple of goalies on the other end of the ice.

Herb nodded to me before saying "Good eye. We'll need it soon. Can you lend a hand and help me with something? I need you to give out some packets to the players in about an hour after I talk with some of those graying US Olympic bigwigs. Thanks. Box is in the officials' booth." He walked past me, muttering about sticks or something.

About 45 minutes (or about two line changes and a checking demonstration) after watching the prospectives shoot, drill, slam and sweat on that large sheet of ice, I figured I should see what exactly 'these packets' were. None of my business, but hey, couldn't hurt to be a bit early. I stopped right underneath the press box. Herb and Patrick were talking about the roster and a player named Janaszak and Craig. Patrick seemed incredulous about something, but unfortunately my mind was distracted on trying to make it up the stairs and not fall because of my equipment. I opened the door to catch the last tail of their conversation. Herb made an obscure statement, "Did they ever see him when his game's on?"

Gathering up the box and seeing Herb nod to me sent a weird reassurance down my spine. I took my time as the mad rush of the players whizzed past me. Sweaty stench and all, about a hundred filed by me to get a seat to hear the news of the roster. A couple of them grinned at me, obviously a bit intrigued why a woman would be standing next to Doc or Craig, or it could have meant anything. I knew enough about decent and a bit 'rough' characters to graze the ice, so I smiled my best. I figured that this might be an upperhand at least being in the clear for conversation starters. Not many women photographers were big in the past five years. Not commercially, anways.

I stopped near Coach Patrick and Doc near ice level as the wall of players chatted and laughed. Patrick cleared his throat and suddenly a wave of silence screeched the players' conversations to a halt. I shifted closer with the box of packets, some sort of application test perhaps, though I never got a good look at it. He read through the list like a death sentence to those who weren't on the team… and perhaps like one to those that got picked. A couple of faces fell and maybe about two dozen or so lit up at the mention of their name. Must be tough to go through something like that. But this was the first day. Right?

"And that's the roster for now." Patrick stated, solidifying my doubts.

The glum crowd of players that weren't picked packed up quickly and disappeared out of the stands, leaving a twenty-six man team that I was sure weren't going to get any 'specialized' or possibly positive attention from Herb Brooks. The man was determined they say. Determined and he meant business from here on out. Well, I had to get to know this team to shoot their film, might as well as memorize what they like to eat first. Celebration will be at hand… but that's for later.

Herb walked in bit later and gave a rousing speech about cutting people who didn't fill his expectations and skirted over simple introductions of the hockey team's support staff; Coach Patrick, the team's doctor (listening ears for the weak and weary) and myself.

A few catcalls and raised eyebrows send him to continue, "This is Anne Miller, our photographer who'll be showing me shots of your abilities, but definitely showing any evidence of your lack thereof. You are warned." I had to smile weakly at this, though I think more than a few faces fell or glares got directed at me. I've been in critiques by old prof's before about my work, but it really hits you when there is a jury of strangers starting to stare you down.

_Some possible enemies? I just got here! Eeep!_ I panicked silently. I flashed a genuine bright smile._ Maybe this won't be so bad._

Herb spoke once more, noticing the shifting mood of the sea of hockey players. He narrowed his eyes and then walked off. Coach Patrick snared their absolute attention by announcing: "On the way out, pick up one of these. You've got a little homework to do before you celebrate."

I smiled at each one of them as they filed past, a couple throwing me winks, and I in turne cast rolled eyes, a couple of smirks and general 'in your dreams' kinda looks. Everybody filed out and eventually the noise fading back into the calm sound of the ice. After disposing of the box and checking next week's schedule, I went to find my bag of equipment.

The pure white caught my eye. Stained perfectly with red and blue lines…there was just something about rinks; the clean ice, the frost air, the lack of players, or the shadows caused by the blaring floodlights overhead. I couldn't get enough of the angles or the clarity you could capture with color or black and white. I took out my Minolta and snuck back into a pocket corner of the rink. Good thing the manager wasn't there, I couldn't get much lighting on the worklights. Never could.

I snapped a few shots, wide angle, fish-eyed, or line depth, it didn't matter. Hockey and photography. What more could I want in life? My head was down and cluttered by the dial math as I figured it on a small scratch of paper and snubbed pencil, that I didn't hear two of the players walk across the ice still in full gear. One was Maclanahan by the jersey number I recalled from earlier today… and the bright flush of his cheeks reminded me of a cartoon character. The other was the goalie. Croath? Cheeves? Craig.

I whispered aloud, "Craig."

Both men were practicing a couple of the drills that Herb had been scolding and yelling at the Maclanahan guy. Each worked intuitively. Craig was still off, but was able to backstop any of the shooter's advances. His defense was a bit tight, but where he didn't provoke, he made up with faking and speed. The goalie finally called out to his oposition,

"Hey, Mac, easy up any more and I just might have to go over and shoot on the other side." Mac in turn, rushed to his stick side and wristed an attempt. He was laughing hysterically and puffed out:

"Yeah, but I bet I could sneak past you faster than your experience with girls."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Keep to your game and I'll go for mine." Craig thundered out, obviously abashed by the cheek of the other player. He spurted out his stick and connected it with the slapshot Mac drove at him. It screamed past Mac and across the nearest blueline. Mac stopped short of breath.

"Easy there big guy." He stopped short to see where the puck landed before continuing. "Didn't mean it like that. I heard about Stephanie. She was nice, but hey. Things happen. Y'know?" Craig slipped off his blocker and trapper and grabbed a waterbottle off of the back of his net.

" 'Things happen.' You think?" He still wasn't chuckling. He gripped the waterbottle a bit too much and water trickled out of the top a bit. He slapped on his gear before calmly stating "Go again."

I peered up from my work. Eyeing that tone of voice out of anywhere, I realized that knew why there was something off his game. I plopped my camera back in the bag and calmly walked down the stairs heading out.

As soon as I made the last step to be at ice-level, a shrill smack and crack snapped in my ears and I saw white.


End file.
